


Bird Set Free

by Miss_Rust



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Jon Snow, Bears, Blood and Injury, Chief Tormund Giantsbane, Coming Out, Eventual Romance, Found Family, Jon Snow never joined the watch, Jonmund Week 2020, M/M, No White Walkers, Not Canon Compliant, Otherwise known as "The Bear AU", Protective Tormund Giantsbane, Slow Burn, Warg Jon Snow, and not the gay kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Rust/pseuds/Miss_Rust
Summary: Jon Snow has had enough of this. The constant disdain, hatred and resentment. Just because his father had fucked a woman, who was not Catelyn Stark. Maybe there was a place in his world where he wouldn't be shunned for something that wasn't even his doing, where he'd be accepted.So he leaves to go North, beyond the Wall, where the Wildlings live who know nothing of bastards and lords.And beyond the Wall, there is a new life, full of hope, and people that will grow to love him.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 72
Kudos: 412





	1. Chapter 1 - Jon

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! My contribution for Day 3 of Jonmundweek2020 ! A brand new AU! 
> 
> Thanks at @Szamanita for supporting me (as well as the discord) for writing this!

Beyond the wall, where the winds howl and the snow falls and storms rage, there are cracks in the ice underneath Jon's feet, glaciers that he walks, north, north, north. To find the wildings. To live with them, become one of them.

He had decided, one day, that he'd leave.

Lady Stark had once again barred him from joining their dinner table, the stable hand had spit in his face with the words' fuck off, bastard' on his lips, and his father had, once again, done nothing.

He was only ten and one then.

And then, he was in a neighbouring village, visiting some lord with his father, and there was a wildling raid. Hidden in a cupboard, he overheard two of them talk. 

_ "Fuckin' kneelers, them with their inheritance bullshit." _

_ "Right? Their old lord at least had spine when we raided here last." _

_ "I still don't see why they'd do that, have your fucking son take over your post like that." _

_ "Like, what the fuck do you even do if your son is an idiot? Who can't lead for shit?" _

_ "Aye, and the entire shtick about trueborn sons. I call bullshit." _

_ "A son is a son, he's your blood. Even if you marry another person, he's still your son. Maybe the lord's other son would have done a better job keeping us away." _

_ "Maybe." _

He'd been astonished to hear that. The nobleman they had talked about had indeed passed away, and his son  _ was  _ useless, he heard father say at dinner once. The moment he was safe, back in Winterfell, he'd gone to the library, finding books about wildlings, and his father had allowed it. 

He probably thought it was a young boy's fantasy, a coping mechanism to learn about his aggressors. But they weren't his aggressors. And he wasn't trying to cope with trauma or anything. Alas, maybe he was. 

A different kind of trauma, one stemming from hatred and resentment. The bullying that Jon had to deal with every day of his life.

Because he was a bastard. Because his father fucked another woman, that was not Catelyn Stark.

And he found his information. The information he needed to convince him that maybe,  _ maybe _ there was a place in his world where he wouldn't be shunned for something that wasn't even his doing, where he'd be accepted.

Where he could live his life, free from concern, free from disdainful looks shot in his direction.

So, he left. When his uncle Benjen came to visit, one day, he went along, taking his direwolf Ghost with him, a sword, and went for the wall. He was ten and seven then, close to his name day, so nearly a man grown.

He had joined the watch, under pretence, careful to never take a vow or make friends. The moment he had a chance, he slipped out in the dead of night, Ghost in tow, to make his way towards the free folk. Mindful not to wear black, he'd smothered himself in thick furs, knowing about the conflict between the Watch and the Wildlings.

And here he was. Stomping through the snow, walking north steadily. At some point, he must cross some of them.

Ghost is with him, hunting, in his element, he's at home here. Jon's lost sight of him, he left at some point during the morning, when the sun was still low on the skies.

Jon feels so much better here, the icy winds give him air to breathe freely, finally. Even though it is freezing, he's here.

Suddenly, he hears a noise, and then, there's a movement. Leagues in front of him, the snow moves. Or does it? No. That's-

A bear. A white one, though? He didn't know bears could be white. Maybe albino like Ghost.

It is moving towards him, though. Fuck.

He's got his sword out before he knows it, outrunning a fucking bear won't work, they're fast, and they can climb, so his only chance is fighting.

Years and years of training flit through his brain, positions and counter positions, sword flourishes, just everything. He needs to get behind the bear. 

Otherwise, he's dead.

He gets a few slashes at the bear, but it doesn't even slow it down. It's snarling, growling at him, and the teeth are way to close to him for his liking.

Panic sets somewhere low in his guts, as he keeps slashing and slashing at the bear for his dear life. He can't die like this, fuck-

From far away, he hears a howl,  _ Ghost- _

He's distracted, and the bear gets the better of him. 

Pain erupts from his thigh, where the bear chomps down, and he feels the teeth burst through his skin, the canines digging in. But that's not the worst, the worst is the bear's molars crushing his leg. 

A sickening crunch and Jon nearly vomits, screaming hoarsely.

But as soon as the bear has bitten, it releases, and Jon can hear his direwolf growl through the haze of his pain, starting to fight the bear.

It's distracted now, and Jon uses the momentum to propel himself on the bear's back, a leap fuelled by the fire in his veins, a desperate scream from the depths of his lung. He must sound like a strangled animal.

It works. His sword slips in, right into its neck. Jon must have hit its spine because it  _ seizes _ and shudders and then collapses. Blood rushes at him, in a spray as the sword slips through the bear's neck, down the side, because Jon loses his grip as he falls forward, sliding down as the bear collapses.

The bear is definitely dead, empty eyes staring back at him as Jon falls to the ground next to it.

He tries to turn onto his back, grunting in pain, nauseous with it, and then Ghost is there, nuzzling at him, making whiny noises, but he can't focus on that.

The pain in his leg is overwhelming, and he grabs at it, trying to feel the injury. It's slick with blood, but it's not oozing out, his trousers restricting the bleeding. Ripping away some fabric from his shirt, he wraps it around but has to stop when he has to vomit. The pain is too much.

His head is turning, dizzy, and he lies down. Fuck. This is not how he wanted to die. Alone, in the woods, with nobody near, just his direwolf, who if he died, he isn't sure would eat his corpse.

Fuck.

Ghost is nuzzling at his face, and he notices the tears running down as the black consumes him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ 

Pain, dull, throbbing in his leg. A yowling hits his ears, a wolf is close. He doesn’t care. It sounds pained, somehow. There’s something wet on his cheek, freezing cold.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ 

Darkness. The noises are numbed now, and his leg pulsates. His foot catches on something. He’s being dragged somewhere, by his cloak.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ 

Cold, wet thing at his hands. Warm air across his fingers. There’s no snow under him anymore, the ground is hard. Something warm settles next to him. Blessed warmth.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, but slowly things begin to make sense again. The warmth against him must be Ghost, keeping him from freezing. The direwolf is surprisingly intelligent. Jon smells his wolf, musty smell of wet dog, but also the rusty smell of blood. His leg keeps throbbing, a dull pain, coming in waves.

After a while, he manages to open his eyes. Gazing down blearily, he sees his wound. It has stopped bleeding, and he really hopes infection won't set in.

It's dark now, and there are stars above him. Distantly, he hears owls. He closes his eyes and moves his hand to grab at Ghost's fur.

They're in an underhang, and there is no snow, just stone. Jon's glad for it. His sword is gone, probably still with the bear.

Ghost lets him burrow closer into the fur, and Jon is glad he got this big. Lying down, he's the same height as Jon, but so, so much broader.

Jon falls asleep.


	2. Tormund

Tormund gets up from his bedroll, leaving his tent. It's morning now, and he contemplates.

They've been tracking and trying to find the ice bear terrorising the area, to try to stop it from coming too close to their village. 

As their chief, he had decided to accompany the hunting party. They're about thirty, hunters, spearwives, and of course their dutiful healer, Irma. 

She is one of their clan elders, wise, and knowledgeable, and could not be able to be convinced to stay when Tormund had said he'd go along. 

Irma is very protective of him, as most of their clan is. He’s their chief, but that doesn't mean they had to like him. No, it is because he had given them so much, prosperity, and safety from quarrels with other clans. 

He was eighteen by the time he had become chief after the last one died of a fever. Fighting through all the other contenders and he had won, fair and square. That was four years ago. He had not been challenged in years. And so, he had deigned to accompany them. 

Yesterday, they had settled on a clearing, as the ice bear had started attacking another animal. The desperate screams had reached them low in the evening before it quickly grew quiet. And then there was a wolf, starting to yowl in the night, so they had become unsure of what this all meant. 

Tormund had decided to stay put and not approach the scene further. Both ice bears and wolves were highly territorial, and if the white beast had killed one of the pack, the rest of it wasn't far.

The daylight would bring much more information. 

Now, in the morning, the yowls had stopped. Irma had woken him so that they might be on their way to track it again. The bear would be much easier to kill when sated and full, digesting its kill. 

He gathers a few of his trackers about him, telling them to go ahead, but carefully. And to go in pairs, taking a fighter with them. To use their sign, an owl call, when they find the bear, and remain hidden until the rest of them would get there. He pairs up with Ygritte, a shieldmaiden, with the prowess of a mountain lion. She's a bit reckless, but quiet as a mouse if she wants to be. She’s never disappointed him, so far, and is fiercely loyal.

He himself likes to track animals, and he's good at it. Not that he isn't good at fighting, he's earned his place as chief fair and square. 

The group sets off, only a few remain in camp, to protect their valuables and Irma.

They trudge through the bushes, alert. The bear could be anywhere, and if they were not attentive, they might lose their lives for it. 

Soon enough though, they hear the sign and follow it through the underbrush, careful not to step on any twigs.

Behind some bushes, Gunnar and Orell sit, quietly pointing. 

A great shape, unmistakably their ice bear, lies motionless in the snow. Its fur is bloody. Dead.

Carefully they approach, and Tormund strokes his hand through the thick fur, from his rear to its head, stepping around carefully. There are bite marks that he can definitely identify as wolfish. But those couldn't have killed it.

But- _there._

The killing wound is on its neck, on the other side of the body, and Tormund steps closer. 

_That's-_

"That's no claw mark. Way too linear." Ygritte hums in thought, standing up from where she was crouched observing the bitemarks.

"No." Tormund nods, and starts grabbing at the snow, he could have sworn he stepped on-

Ah. He grasps the pommel of the sword, a longsword, that has clattered to the floor next to the bear. 

_"Shit."_ His heart drops into his stomach. 

That was a human. A human. They had heard the bear fighting, and it was a person. Were they even alive, whoever they were? To bring down an ice bear alone. That's near impossible. The person must have gotten on its back, to bring down their sword down its neck, to kill it. 

"Tormund, look." 

There's a strip of fabric on the floor, drenched in blood, and that's human blood, by the smell of it. Bears smell different, and their blood is darker. There are spots of blood next to the bear, and pawprints. 

The wolf. Of course. It had dragged the almost definitely hurt bear slayer away, stealing the ice bears' prey. But why did it yowl so much? It didn't make sense. 

"A wolf we can kill. Whoever killed this beast, we shall sing songs about them. But first, we need to bury their body. With their weapon."

The men and women gathered around him nod, all in assent. 

"Someone skin that bear. And take the skull. We shall hang it in honour of the one who killed it, and feast on its meat." 

He moves, now dead intent on finding the body. It's easy to follow the tracks where the wolf has dragged the body.

Ygritte falls into step next to him, silently, and ten of their people follow. Another 8 are skinning the beast, and start cutting up the meat for easier transport. The rest of them are still in camp or went into the other direction. 

"You know," Ygritte starts, "They could still be alive. Wolves play with their prey sometimes."

"I know." Tormund replies, gruff, "but I don't want to get my hopes up. It's enough that I failed this person last night, by not coming to help."

"You couldn't have known. The screams didn't sound human."

"That just makes it worse. For a person to cry like that, not an easy death. At least they went down fighting."

"Aye. Only to be picked up to be a wolf's dinner instead."

They go on in silence.

It's not that far, and they reach an underhang at one of the hills around the area. 

And suddenly, Tormund thinks they've had it all wrong. That there is another bear, because the breathing mass shifting in the cave-like overhang, is _white_ , and large.

But it hears them, and get's up, and by the gods, that's a fucking _direwolf._ Albino _._

Ten men against a direwolf is a tough fight, and he starts calculating, as the red eyes muster the group, and raises his weapon-

"Ghost, you're _crushing me-_ why did you get up? If that's a rabbit, please get it, I'm starving."

There's a man under the wolf. Grabbing at its fur, not noticing them. There's blood on his leg and sprinkled across his face. Like though he had stabbed a bear's vein and it sprayed across him. That’s him, the one they were seeking. Alive.

Subconsciously, he takes a step further. The wolf growls at him, and the man finally turns.

It's a staredown. Him, the wolf, and the young, barely adult looking man, who has now clenched his hand into the Albino's fur, stopping him from advancing. 

Tormund carefully, _carefully,_ raises his sword in surrender, laying it down on the floor. Ygritte follows suit, and the others do too. 

He kneels, tries to make his voice sound the least threatening as possible. He won't lose this man to injury. It's a wonder. The wolf is clearly his companion, maybe he's a warg. That's why the wolf was howling and dragging him to safety. There is no snow in the cave, so to stop his human from freezing. 

"We won't hurt you." He calls across, trying hard not to flinch as the wolf steps closer. 

The man says nothing. 

"My name is Tormund, and this is Ygritte. We can help you, there's a healer in our camp."

The wolf sniffs the air, then sniffs at the man on the floor, and turns. He lies down further in the cave, clearly giving them the leeway to approach his human. 

Tormund gets up and tries hard not to rush, to not upset the wolf or the man. 

The next hour is a haze, as they assess the man's injury, find out his name; Jon.

They figure out he can't be carried like this. His leg is broken, not stable to be jostled. He sends Ygritte back to camp to get a carrier, and to inform Irma of her new patient so she may get the herbs ready.

They wait for them to get back. 

Tormund settles down next to the man, no, _Jon-_ and sighs.

"You got lucky, boy."

"I know."

He looks feverish now, but no infection has set in yet. They might be lucky. 

"We were close. Heard the bear going at what we thought was a deer at the time. I'm sorry. I should have investigated."

"It's not your fault. I wasn't paying attention."

"Hm. And yet, you killed a bear. Alone."

"Not alone. Ghost helped. If he hadn't been there, I'd be dead."

"Still, an impressive feat."

He finally looks down at the man, his head pillowed on Tormund's fur cloak, dark curls sweaty on his forehead, a soft beard set in. His eyes are grey like the sky, and Tormund can't help but think he's pretty. He banishes the thought quickly. 

Another one rises to the front of his mind. 

"Here," he says, grabbing the sword they found at the ice bear's corpse, "I think that's yours."

The young man looks at him astonished.

"Why would you arm me?"

Tormund scoffs, half laughs.

"Do you not think that that wolf you have for a companion is weapon enough? I've got no illusions, Jon. I know what it feels like to be surrounded by strangers, when vulnerable. We don't want to hurt you, you just rid us of a bear plaguing our village for months. I'm grateful. Maybe this can make you trust us to help you. And not have your wolf butcher us, Jon Bearslayer." he explains, taking the man's smaller hand and wrapping it around the hilt of the sword, "Don't bite the hand that feeds you, little wolf."

"Oh."

He looks young, so very young, and vulnerable. Tormund watches as his eyes fall shut, glassy, but he knows it's okay. He won't die if he falls asleep now. A broken leg is no death sentence. He needs to rest. 

Ygritte comes back, with a few more people and a stretcher, and they carefully move him on it. Tormund lets his people carry it, 4 men on each of the corners, and walks next to the man's side. The direwolf jumps up and walks on his other side. 

He looks around and is proud of his clan. Direwolf companions are rare, but his people are used to the odd deer or shadow cat prowling behind, so it's not an issue. 

Irma waits for them, concern evident on her wrinkled face. He's the only one allowed in her tent, as chief, when there's a patient, so he joins her. But not before telling his people to settle the camp. They can't move Jon, and it's quite apparent from the way he had behaved, that there was no one else to miss him. A lone hunter, perhaps? Ostracised by his clan for his warging? Not unheard off, the mountain clans were especially picky. Separated from his group? Orphaned maybe, fending for himself?

He would find out soon enough. For now, he was a welcome guest in their camp, and he needed to heal.


	3. Chapter 3 - Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for day 4 of the Jonmundweek! Enjoy (Vulnerability)

####  **Chapter 3: Jon**

There are voices around him, dulled. He isn't cold anymore, and he's lying on something soft. His entire leg throbs now, someone is doing something to it. It's painful. Someone has taken his boots off, it seems, as well as his trousers for easier access to the wound. He's still wearing small clothes though.

As if through water, he hears two people speak, a woman and a man, both quiet, low whispers. The woman seems old, her voice being gruff and a bit scratchy, but not unpleasant. The other one must be the man that found him yesterday, he remembers his voice. Tormund. 

A burning feeling surges through him, and he whimpers in pain, struggles against the arms that are holding him down. 

The person above him tries to get a better grip, holding his head back against a warm chest, warm palm across his forehead. 

"Shhh, you're fine, Irma is cleaning out the wound. She's using strong alcohol spirits to fend off an infection." 

That's Tormund. The chieftain. Jon remembers warm, blue eyes, a sword pressed into his hands, the trust, the help. 

The taller man holds him as the healer does her work on his legs. It's painful, and he can't stop whimpering. The wounds are deep, but the touch on his broken leg is worse. 

It seems like Tormund can't stand listening to his whimpers either, he must sound pitiful.

"Irma. Please, give him Nightshade. I don't want him to suffer."

"He's gonna suffer, either way, Giantsbane."

"But it won't be so bad if we're not touching his leg. He doesn't have to suffer more, right now."

The healer hums, but the pressure on his leg subsides. Relief washes over him as he hears the healer walk around the tent, puttering. The chief holds him, still.

Jon doesn't know what Nightshade is. He's had milk of the poppy, before. But north of the wall, poppy doesn't grow, it's too cold. The Free Folk probably have their own herbs against the pain. 

He tries to open his eyes, to see what they're doing.

The tent is rather big, big enough for a person to stand up in it. He's lying on the far side, away from the entry flap. Jon sees his leg. It's absolutely mangled, deep teeth marks on his thigh, but the blood has been cleared away. It's blue and yellow though, deeply bruised. 

"It'll heal." The chief tells him, noting his eyes are open. 

"What's Nightshade?" Jon asks, now watching the healer.

She's old, grey hair in a long braid down her back, dressed in leather  _ trousers. _

He's never seen an old lady in trousers. Sure, he had seen the fearsome shieldmaidens, or spear wives, as they were called north of the wall. Some of them wore trousers too. 

It feels liberating. They'd let him be himself. If Jon was allowed to stay, that is. 

"Nightshade, my dear, is an essence we dilute from a flower, only growing in the haunted forests. It will take the pain away, for a while." 

Her voice is deep. He's never heard a woman with a voice so deep. It's calming and warm.

"Here, boy." 

She gives him a small bowl, seemingly filled with water. After a second, it smells bitter. 

He drinks it. If he starts being suspicious now, he'll never prove himself worthy to them. They don't even know he's a southerner yet. They might still rescind their help.

The effect is almost instantaneous. A warm, soft feeling spreads from Jon's insides, with every heartbeat. Soon, it overwhelms the sensation of pain. As it arrives in his head, he starts feeling very, very tired.

"Rest, Jon." the chief still holds him, and the last thing he sees is the healer, poking at his leg. It doesn't hurt anymore. He dreams-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

People are bustling around, there are tents everywhere. 

Everything looks weirdly sharp but muted. He smells so many things. Tastes. Blood, Grass, the cold icy smell of snow. Fire, smoke. Freshly cut meat. 

He walks around, people part in front of him. He doesn't smell fear on them, just apprehension. 

A red-haired woman stops in front of him, kneels.

"You hungry, wolf?" 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jon wakes up, panting. A wolf dream. He hasn't had those for a long while. There was always more magic across the wall, he knows, they had been getting more frequent as they travelled up North. 

At least he didn't wake up with the taste of blood in his mouth now. A figure steps into his field of view, and he has to blink a couple of times.

It's the chieftain. Tormund's hair is loose, now, mostly. Half of it is tucked up in braids, the other half cascades down his shoulders. It's long and red and curly. 

It's the first time he can catch a full look at him, without being distracted. Tormund- he's very handsome. Strong, muscled, a couple of scars on his body. And young. He can't be older than thirty, probably younger than that too. He doesn't know how common that is, he thought chieftains would be old.

"You're awake, good."

The man sits down, somewhere next to his hip. 

"I've got stew, you should eat. You've been without water for a while."

Jon gladly accepts the bowl, spooning it. He doesn't recognise half of what's inside, weird roots that taste sharply, and some meat he cannot identify. Potatoes he can recognise, though.

"It's the bear, we've butchered it. Will feed us for a while." 

He hums at the ginger's explanation. Suddenly he realises, that there are a couple more people in here now than before. Not that many. But enough to make him feel a bit unsettled. 

Tormund notes this and carefully puts a warm hand on his good leg. 

"They're my council. Here to help me decide what to do with you."

Jon nods, understanding. Seems like it's time to prove himself. 

"Now, as I'm sure you understand, I'd like to know who you are. Which clan do you hail from? You're too young to be a lone hunter, I don't know of any clan that sends out their young this early. How old are you even?" 

"I'm seventeen." he tries to not sound so petulant. He was always bullied for his height, his looks, but he worked hard to fill out, to gain muscle, and now this chieftain implied he looked young? Damn it

Tormund laughs, a booming, loud thing. 

"Sure underestimated your age then. You're small, my bad. Go on."

He doesn't sound mean, just warm when he says it. There's no malice. It's already so different from south of the wall. There's this man, this chieftain, that did not flinch at the sight of Ghost, got his entire clan out to help him, gave him something against his pain when the healer took care of him, so he didn't have to suffer- 

Jon feels comfortable. He doesn't want to lie to this man. If they kill him now, fine. He's found out genuine kindness already, much more than he's already had. As long as they don’t bring him back to the wall, that’s fine. He’s not scared of dying. Just scared of going back there. 

He takes a deep breath, and looks the chief in the eyes, and starts retelling everything. From how he's a bastard, how he was treated by everyone in Winterfell, the Wildling raid, to finding out everything about the Free Folk, and deciding that one day, he'd join them. 

The older man utters no words, but he can see how incredulous the man is at his tale. 

Before long, he's done, and there is silence. 

"So, if I understand this correctly, you want to join my clan. You, a Southerner."

"Please. I can work and learn! I have steel, and I've been trained to fight since I was but six years old. But I'd much rather not be fighting, but hunting I  _ can _ do, just  _ please _ \- "  


Jon tries hard to keep the tears from escaping and succeeds, but his voice wavers, in the end. He wants this so damn much. 

The red-head sighs, burying his head in his hands. 

"I don't even know where to unpack that." he groans. He looks back at Jon after a while, and then at his council. There's Irma, two other men and the spear wife from before, Ygritte, he thinks. 

"The thing is, he's killed a fucking ice bear, by  _ himself.  _ That's no small feat." 

Assent among the council, the spear wife looks impressed, grinning at him a bit.

"And the lads very young."

Jon wants to protest, but the chief puts a calming hand on his leg, again. 

"There's no way I can leave this boy on his own. Not when it was my fault that he got hurt. I should have investigated. Now he can't walk. And even if he could, he's too young, too inexperienced to survive alone. I say we vote." 

Jon's heart beating in his chest, way too loudly, he’s scared they’ll hear it.

"What do we vote for?" 

"For him to stay, or for him to be dropped off at the Wall." Tormund's voice sounds final.

A cold shudder moves down his spine. If they'd take him back- he couldn’t cope with that. He’d rather die. Anxiety grips him hard. 

Irma is first. 

"He's a tough one, and there's never enough fighters. And enough people want an apprentice. He'll have space amongst us. Tormund, the poor lad has been abused his entire  _ life.  _ You can't mean to take him back there! Look at his face, he's terrified. I vote stay." 

A man he doesn't know chimes in, broad-shouldered, long, straight dark hair, a kind face. He votes to stay too, impressed by his fight with the bear. It seems like the Free Folk really value a good fight.

Ygritte, the fiery one, is next. 

"Tormund, you know I don't care for southerners. They killed my family." 

Jon's heart drops. Ygritte is mustering him, carefully. 

"I admit, I am impressed. That bear has claimed lives from our clan. It was terrorising us for months. And this child just comes along and offs it. And it seems like he's a warg, too, with that giant direwolf following him around. I vote stay, but if he stays, I'll keep an eye on him. Personally." 

Jon is relieved. 

There's discussion now, and Jon's asked to confirm he's a warg, but the only thing he can say is that he has wolf dreams, which seems to be enough for the council.

"We can train him. A direwolf companion is useful." 

"He's a bit old to be trained." 

"If we don't, he might get worse." 

"Aye."

Soon, all men and women have given their statement. Only 2 have said no, out of 6, but the one who counts is the chieftain. 

Jon observes his face as the man seems to mull it over. His face doesn't betray anything. 

A long silence later, and Tormund clears his throat. 

"He stays. We can still kill him if he's a spy. But I doubt it." 

The weight that falls off his shoulders is immense. He has a space now. Tears of relief are shooting to his eyes, involuntarily, and he blindly grasps for the chief's hand.

"Thank you-" he manages to bring out.

"You're safe now, Jon Bearslayer. Rest.” Irma, the healer says, smiling at him. 

Jon smiles back. He’s never been this happy. A whole new life awaits him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you like this one? Jon finally has a place, just for himself! 
> 
> Please leave me some comments, I love to read what you think! (Or Kudos!!!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! I've been going through some stuff so writing has been hard. Hopefully this is up to standards, I didn't really proofread it :D

Jon stays in the healer’s tent, and for the next few days, he just watches her work from his cot. 

He’s curious, she’s like no-one he’s ever met before. 

Her name is Irma, she’s rather tall, and older than much of the rest of the camp. He thinks she must be around 60 years old. And yet, her body is lithe and strong, wiry, but not brittle as it was for many of the older women south of the wall. 

Her hair is long, really long, and rather white. Her cheekbones protrude, and when she was younger, she must have been really sought after. She’s beautiful. Her nose is rather big, too. Down south, people might have called her a witch, but to him, she just seems strong.

When she laughs, and she does, often, her face wrinkles in a happy way.

He watches as she putters around in what has become their tent. People bring her herbs, and plants and flowers. Where they find them, he doesn’t know. To him, it just seems like there is just snow, everywhere. She sorts them. 

“What are you looking at, little wolf?” 

Little Wolf. That’s another change that has come over the past days. It might be because of Ghost, but he’s unsure.

“What are those plants? Where do they come from?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He doesn’t want to bother her, and he doesn’t want to seem like he knows nothing. But the need to _know_ overwhelms any fear. 

“This,” she holds up the dark green, wiry plant with purple flowers, “Is called Nightshade. It’s poisonous, if you touch it, it will make your skin break out in hives.” 

“Then why are you touching it?” 

“I’m not. See?” 

He watches as she holds up her hands, and sure enough, her hands are covered in a very thin cloth.

“Oh.” 

“Like this, I can take off the leaves and put it into a mixture. If I boil it over the fire with some water, it makes a powerful pain medicine. It can also put you to sleep. You know it, I gave it to you a couple of days ago.”

Jon hums, interested. 

“Where does it grow? There is snow everywhere.” 

Irma smiles, but it’s friendly.

“There are many caves and warm water springs here, and they grow in there. They do not need much light.” 

She takes a small wooden stool and moves to sit next to him, where he’s lying on the cot.

Now he can see better. 

“Can I help?” 

“You can, but I do not have gloves for you. You may watch until I’ve found some” 

Jon nods. 

He’s not experienced this kind of care. Someone below the wall would have probably made him do it without protection, and laugh. 

But so far, here? Nothing of the sort. The people are kind to him, speak to him, even. 

And none of them has insulted him or called him any names yet. No ‘Bastard’, or _‘Snow’,_ have been thrown at him with a snide look upon the face yet, as it was custom south. 

Some of them do look at him a bit warily when Irma helps him sit outside at the fire to eat, but he doesn’t really know if that is because he is from south of the wall, a foreigner, or because he slew that bear. 

Because, many of the free folk do come in, to see him in his tent or when they eat, shieldmaidens and hunters alike, and ask him about the fight, wide-eyed and full of something that seems a bit like awe. 

But all he can tell them is that he only fought for his life and that it was Ghost who saved him, distracted the bear.

For some reason that just gains him more incredulous looks, some of them mutter stuff about “wargs”, and “the connection must be strong.” 

The chieftain visits often, too. 

A couple of hours pass, and finally Irma deems him knowledgeable enough, as she has been testing him, telling him knowledge about Nightshade and asking him to repeat it. She takes off her gloves and gives them to him, and thankfully, they fit. 

She still sits there, next to him, observing, and giving pointers. It’s relaxing, and Jon is glad he can finally do something. 

At some point, the flap of the tent opens and Tormund walks inside. 

The man is absolutely enormous. He looks exactly what he would think a wildling would look like, in his most secret, yearning dreams. 

Strong, wild, wily hair and beard, muscular arms. 

And yet, the man himself is not feral or wild, he’s calm and serious and friendly and just- 

“Irma, Bearslayer” 

His musings get interrupted as the chieftain greets them. 

“You’re teaching him?” 

“He’s a quick learner. And he wants to learn, he seeks the knowledge and _doesn’t cease asking.”_

Irma makes it sound fond, and teasing, and it doesn’t make Jon want to stop asking questions. His father was always annoyed, but never outright told him what others would; ‘Bastards aren’t supposed to learn’.

Tormund laughs, and the sound is booming.

“That’s good, very good.” 

Finally, the man turns to him, and Jon can’t stop the small happy smile from flitting across his face. 

“You’re healing well” 

Jon nods. He has. The swelling has gone down completely, and the wounds have not festered. Irma had sanitized them with burning alcohol many times, and sewed the punctures closed. And yet, his leg is still broken. He can’t walk. 

“Can’t walk yet.” 

Irma sighs, and strokes a curl out of Jon’s face.

“It will be a while, Wolf, until you can. Patience.”

“I’m not very patient.” Jon retorts, but without much heat.

“Growing restless, eh?” The chieftain settles down next to him, trying not to jostle Jon too much but it’s nearly impossible with his broad body. 

Jon nods. 

“I might have a solution, we’ve been working on it tirelessly since you got here.” 

Confusion comes over him. A solution? Did they find a working leg, growing on a tree somewhere?

The other two break out into laughter when he asks that and Tormund shakes his head. 

“No, we made you a sled.” 

“A sled?” 

“Aye, one that can be tugged by your wolf, if you can get him to do it, but if not, by us, instead. We’re a moving people, Jon. We’re going to stay here for another week, or two, but at some point, we need to get back to my clan.”

Jon gapes.

“Back, to your clan?” He’s confused. “I thought _this_ is your clan.”

“Aye, they are.” The chieftain chuckles,” But there are many more to my clan that this. this is just a small hunting party.” 

“Oh.”

They fall into a small silence, and Jon digests this new information. The thought of more free folk somehow gives him anxiety. 

“Jon? Are you okay? You look a bit pale there.” 

“I’m just. I don’t know, I didn’t know there would be more, is there going to be another vote? What if they don’t want me here?” he voices, he has to. He has to know. Maybe he shouldn’t have, as he sees a concerned, thoughtful look pass Tormund’s face. 

The pause that follows makes him even more worried. 

There’s a wordless exchange between the chieftain and the healer, and she moves from the stool, letting Tormund get closer to him. 

The chieftain clears his throat and takes one of Jon’s hands. Jon’s glad he’s taken off the gloves tainted with nightshade, not wanting to cause a reaction. 

“Jon, what makes you think that?” 

“Think what?” 

“Think that we’re going to make you leave, still, after everything.” 

“Will you? I’m a southerner, and everybody is so, I don’t know, some of the men are wary of me.” 

The chieftain chuckles, and it makes Jon even more confused.

“Jon, they’re not wary of you. They’re hesitant to approach you because you killed a bear, with your wolf. If anything, they’re respectful. This is no small feat. Jon, a _bear_. You’re the first person who has done this that I know of.” 

“But I’m just, Jon. It was pure luck. Self-defence. That’s all.” Jon doesn’t know what else to say. 

Tormund scoffs, but grins. “Lad, without impeccable skill this feat would not have been accomplished. I cannot wait for you to get back onto your feet, so I can spar with you if you want.” 

Spar? With _him_?

“I wouldn’t stand a chance,” Jon utters, trying not to flush, as his eyes come to stop on the broad shoulders. 

“Nay, I think you would.” 

Jon dares to look up, to scrutinize the other man. The chieftain meets his look, evenly, letting Jon size him up. 

“What’s your weapon of choice?” he lets out, curious. 

“Oh, anything. I can use a sword, but I’m also good without anything. I just need myself to defend myself. It’s how I became chieftain.” 

Irma, forgotten by them both, laughs. 

“Aye, you won. But I did have to patch you up, boy.” 

“There’s no shame in that.” Tormund grins. 

He doesn’t understand anything. Became chieftain? By defending himself? 

“Did you have to fight? To become chief?” Jon asks, not able to hold it in.

“Aye, I did.” the chieftain replies, “It doesn’t work as it does down south, where you just inherit everything if you’re the eldest. Nay, we have to fight. The best warrior wins, doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman. And then the council votes, based on tests they put the best one under. To see if he can lead.” 

“And you won.” 

“And I won.” 

The grin on the man’s face is all-consuming, and a bit feral. Jon tries hard to not let it get to him, but he cannot suppress his blush. 

But then, a serious look comes across the chieftains face, again.

“Jon, we will not make you go away. We had a vote, and while only a few of my usual council attended that vote, it’s binding. Out of the seven of us that voted, four are on my usual council, which includes seven too. You need a majority of four to get a vote to pass. And of course, me. I hold the final decision power over all of them, so if any of those that didn’t come along said no, they would have no power.” 

That’s reassuring, somehow. But it seems like Tormund isn’t done, he seeks eye contact. 

“Look at me, boy.” 

He does.

“If anybody will try to make you leave, you will take it to me. I’m your chief, now. And I protect my people. And you are one of us now, you have all of the rights. You’re not a slave or anything else what those southerners told you. We’re all the same, here.” 

“Okay.”

That’s all he can say, he’s a bit overwhelmed. 

“So!” Tormund jumps up, suddenly, invigorated with energy and Jon tries hard not to jump in surprise.

“Tormund, stop _jostling my patient_ , you giant lout.” Irma chastises, but she sounds so fond that it isn’t really an insult at all.

And yet, the big man looks a bit sheepish. Jon has to grin.

“Apologies, Jon.” The chieftain grins, “I got too excited about the sled. Would you like to see it ?” 

“Ah- ah ah-, young man, not without me!” Irma walks around the taller man, grabbing some furs and moving towards him, and begins to help him into the warm dry furs. With just his undershirt, he’d freeze outside. 

When he’s done, the chieftain and the healer lift him, and help him hobble outside. 

The sled is wooden. It’s rather long, so he can lie down with his leg straight. There are fixtures at both ends, that he can be tugged from, or even pushed. The wooden planks are tied together with leather straps. Tormund helps him to lie down on it, and some of the fighters gather around, assessing the situation. After a while, and a lot of wiggling on the sled if it holds, it is deemed passable by a nod from the chief. 

A strong arm grasps at him and pulls him up to stand. For just a second, Jon is so close to the chief he can feel the warm breath on his face, which leads his heart to stop for a beat. 

The moment is broken when Jon’s stomach lets out a loud grumble, and the men gathered around laugh. The older man grasps around his waist, and leads him over to the fire, teasing all the way. where Irma is already sitting. 

Tormund gets him settled next to Irma. Bear is still on the menu it seems, the big stew pot is over the fire. 

Irma pulls him close like a mother hen would pull her chick under her wing, when she notices him shivering. 

Jon wants to complain, and extract himself, but the older woman seems to be able to read his mind.

“Don’t even think about it, I won’t have you suffer black toes because you’re stubborn, little wolf.” she rasps, and Jon marvels again at her deep voice. It’s so soothing.

Getting comfortable, he lets his gaze wander. There are about thirty of Tormund’s clan in this hunting party, he knows, but right now only a dozen are around the fire. 

They’re all young, he notes, grown, however. The shieldmaidens are awe-inspiring. Long hair is braided back most often, and their leather armour is nothing if functional. Once he saw an “armour” for a woman lying in Winterfell's treasury, and he had to wonder whether it was armour, or just decorative with how much skin would lie exposed. 

It had a skirt too. Come to think of it, he has yet to see a woman in a skirt. 

His eyes flit past the group of women eating across him and stops on two men, middle-aged.

They’re laughing together, and sit very closely. Jon has to smile, he remembers sitting close to Robb like this, a long time ago. One of them gets up to get more stew and leans in for a kiss.

He’s staring, he knows, but he can’t stop.

Irma notices, and follows his view, landing on the two warriors.

“Interested, are you?” 

“What?” 

It’s like he’s ripped out of a reverie, he gets confused. 

“Olgar and Isgrimm, over there. You were looking at them with the most hopeful look on your face.” 

“I did?” 

“Aye. So, Men? Women? Or both? Maybe nothing at all?” 

“I- “ he pauses, trying to gather his thoughts, “That’s an option?” 

He gestures over to the two men. 

“Aye, that’s an option. Us Free Folk, we’re free. Free to love, free to live. You could marry a man, or a woman, an’ none of us would care.” 

“Oh.” 

“Of course, we do need to secure our children so that the clan survives. We have two types of what you would call a marriage down south. They’re more like bonds, anyways.” 

Irma smiles down at him.

“Two types ?”

“Aye, it’s difficult to translate, you know we’ve got the old’ tongue.” 

“Explain the concept? Maybe there’s no word.” 

“One of them is for children, a man and a woman find each other and can decide to have children together, but there is not necessarily love involved.” 

“And the other?” 

“The other is for love, it’s recognised as the highest form of a bond, it’s more comparable to your marriage down south, but I hear that’s also not always for love.”

No. It isn’t. He has to think about the dozens and dozens of letters received to ask for a betrothal for Sansa, and she never met any of them. Soon she would have to settle, he guesses, but he doesn’t know anything that happens down there.

He muses, for a while. So many questions pop up into his head.

“So, can you have both ?” 

“Aye, you can.” 

“And I could marry a man. If I wanted to.” 

“Yes, little wolf.” Irma is patient, and when he looks up at her, she smiles at him.

“Do you have someone?” 

The healer laughs, and it’s such a nice sound. He likes hearing it.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d want something from me, young thing,” she pokes him, still chuckling, even more as she takes in his scandalized face.

She sobers, after a while. 

“No, Jon, I don’t have anyone, from either type of bond,” she says, softly. 

He wants to apologize, but she puts up a finger when he tries to open his mouth.

“Let me continue, cub. I am the last type that I mentioned earlier, I don’t prefer anything at all.” She grins down at him, “I plainly just don’t have any interest in anyone, I don’t desire to fuck anyone, and I never have.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yes, now do eat your stew, be a love. I want to get you back inside so your southern ass doesn’t freeze anymore, it doesn’t help the healing.” 

Jon obliges, quickly, continuing to eat the stew, trying not to get lost in the millions and millions of questions that pop up in his head. 

He can’t stop trailing his eyes over to the couple, and the warm feeling inside him spreads. 

*

“Irma? I think I prefer men,” he voices at night when she helps him to get situated on his cot.

She smiles at him, knowingly.

“I think I knew it the moment you looked at our two lovebirds earlier.” 

“Was I that obvious?” 

“No, I’m just good at reading you,” the healer smiles, but sombers. “You don’t need to keep it a secret, here, you know that? Those fuckers down south can fuck right off with their stupid notions of what is right and what is wrong.” 

“I think I’m beginning to understand that.” 

“Good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments give me life, especially nowadays!

**Author's Note:**

> How did you like it? Please leave a comment!!! (or smash that kudos button!)


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